


A Flame Into Being

by sidneycarter



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family tension, M/M, Romance, Slight Internalised Homophobia, Slow Burn, Sullivan is repressed, Yearning, based upon Lady Chatterley's Lover, but its worth bearing in mind if you find these themes upsetting, i.e shell shock/non-graphic descriptions of injuries/mentions of minor character death, im not intending for this work to be too heavy, kind of angsty in places?, mentions of religious intolerence, mentions of war (specifically first world war) and all that comes with it, sad gay sullivan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneycarter/pseuds/sidneycarter
Summary: There is a new gamekeeper at Isley Hall.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> the lady chatterley's lover au i have always wanted to write!!  
> this work is set in the 1920s, but due to its closenss to the first world war there will be mentions of it, likely throughout. 
> 
> Any major recurring themes that may be triggering in nature will be tagged on the actual work itself; these will be updated as i go along so please keep an eye out. Any less frequent, brief mentions, will be noted at the top of each individual chapter where they appear, so please also read these too! Equally, if theres something I've missed with regards to tagging that might be triggering to you or someone else, please let me know!! its never my intention to cause anybody any harm and ill immediately do my best to get appropriate tags on the fic. thank you in advance! <3
> 
> For now, this fic's rating is set at Teen and Up. The original Lady Chatterley's Lover is very much 18+, but I'm still not sure how I'm going to handle those elements in this adaptation. So if you are an underage reader, please check the rating with each update!! 
> 
> This fic is mostly a 'based upon' Lady Chatterley's Lover rather than a reprint with different character names, so themes/plotpoints may deviate from the original, or they may stick closely!! we'll see!!
> 
> most of all, i hope you enjoy reading!

In recent years, breakfasts at Isley Hall have become strained. 

Not just the breakfasts, in fact, but all household occasions that require the Sullivan family to be in close quarters. 

Colonel Charles Sullivan makes no attempt to communicate with his wife or son as he reads the morning newspaper. 

Mrs Mary Sullivan, a meek and mild-tempered woman, does not press, and shakily sips tea from a bone china cup. 

Thomas Sullivan, their only son, chews his food like it is a chore. He wonders if he should say something. Perhaps he is supposed to start a conversation. He can’t remember how it was, before. He can’t be certain that he talked warmly before the outbreak of the Great War, but somehow he is sure the atmosphere was better than this. 

There was at least a sense of camaraderie then. They were never an openly emotional or affectionate family, but he's sure he can remember a time where he and his father could at least maintain eye contact. He thinks he was quite close to his mother, as well. 

And the butler has always been fond of him, he remembers that. 

Except the butler isn’t the butler anymore. Mellors is somewhere out in Flanders Fields. They never found his body. His wife buried a pair of old boots and a scraped up baccy tin. 

The new butler is a young man, promoted far too early in his career. There was nothing else to do, really, except promote him. There was no one any older to take up the position. Half a generation of young men, including those at Isley Hall, seem to have been wiped from existence. 

Yet the ghostlike memories of them still haunt the Hall. 

Thomas Sullivan is one of them. He’s alive in the physical sense, he supposes. He was one of the lucky ones. A bayonet wound to his left knee still makes it a little creaky, but he healed well and it only bothers him when the air is damp. Physically, that was the worst he got. But the Great War has left different wounds far deeper than that. 

It isn’t shell shock, or at least that’s what he comforts himself with. He’s seen men who had shell shock, both in the hospitals and since he’s been back home - the dazed, blurry eyed expressions, and the way they couldn’t finish their sentences without stammering… the fear in their eyes. 

He isn’t like that, he tells himself. He was one of the lucky ones. The worst the war could do for Sullivan was to take away his hope. There are only so many things a young man can see before he starts to believe that there is nothing good left in the world. 

He’s fortunate that his family come from wealth. At least he has something to return to, even if it is just this crumbling old house with more memories - too many, in fact - than it’s walls are capable of holding in. He’s got a few years until it will truly be _his_ \- his father may be a withered, bitter old man but he doesn’t appear to have much intention of dying just yet. 

He often wonders if he’s making his father proud. That is what he always wished to do, even before the war. Colonel Sullivan had had a long, illustrious military career, commanding armies around the world on behalf of His or Her Majesty. He began teaching young, sweet Sullivan battle tactics from the moment he could walk, and Sullivan has a gut-wrenching at horror at the thought that some part of him experienced sick glee when he learnt his son would be sent off to war at nineteen years old. 

What had returned home to the old Colonel wasn’t a battle-hardened, glorious soldier, flush with victory, like he had been expecting. Instead, he was given an echo of a former self - a shadow of a man who may never come back. Nevertheless, Colonel Sullivan has turned his sights upon his next great aims for his son’s life - preparing him to be the man of the house, and no doubt to find him a suitable wife in the process. 

“—Thomas? Thomas? Good God, boy, are you paying attention?” 

Sullivan snaps out of his thoughts. 

His father is watching him with what feels horribly close to a sneer. He bats his newspaper against the table repeatedly to ensure he is listening. 

“As I was just saying to your mother,” Another disapproving glance is thrown down the length of the table, “I feel that you should come with me to inspect the collieries this morning. They’re an important part of the estate’s revenue and you’ve had precious little experience managing them to this point.” 

“Yes, father.” Sullivan feels bone tired at the thought. 

Colonel Sullivan looks contemptuous. “I know you’d rather spend your days locked in your quarters drawing bunny rabbits - or whatever it is you waste the hours with - but this is of the utmost importance. It is about the future survival of this estate.” 

Sullivan swallows down a lump in his throat and nods mutely. 

“After breakfast I should like you ready and by the front door by no later than, shall we say ten thirty? I must be back in time to interview the new candidates for household staff. We’re far too thin on the ground at the minute. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Good.” With that, the Colonel returns to his paper, and Sullivan to his breakfast and his thoughts. 

The silence is only broken by the soft clink of Mrs Sullivan’s cup as she settles it back into her saucer. 

* * *

The letter of recommendation weighs heavily in Sidney Carter’s pocket. 

There’s something eerie about the stable yard of Isley Hall, but he can’t place his finger on it. Too few people, he supposes, but a lot of places have been like that since the war.

He misses Montague House already. 

It was Lady Felicia herself who’d told him that Colonel Sullivan was looking for new staff. Good pay, she’d said, or at least better than he could get with no formal position at Montague. Lady Felicia had shown enough kindness taking him in as an orphaned child, and he couldn’t ask for much more in return. He’d honestly expected to be thrown out of the door the moment he turned eighteen, but she’d kept him on comfortably into adulthood. 

She also assured him the letter of recommendation she’d written is spectacular, and that Colonel Sullivan, curmudgeonly as he may be, would be mad not to offer him a position in his household. 

Sid trudges towards a servants entrance on the side of the main house. There are maids flitting in and out, carrying baskets of laundry and bedding down to the washhouses. The air smells of freshly baking bread, and Sid’s mouth waters. He hopes if he does get work here the Cook is allowed to set aside provision for the staff. 

Upon reaching the doorway, the footman stops him and takes his name. He introduces himself as Mallory, and Sid tries not to laugh at his rather twitchy moustache. 

Mallory takes him upstairs through miles of winding back passages until they arrive in a hallway that looks distinctly more ‘upstairs’ that the plain white walls he’d just walked through. This passageway is half lined with dark mahogany, and the fresh, sweet smell indicates it was waxed recently. The walls are littered with oil paintings, and Sid has a horrid feeling that some of them are watching him.

Mallory promptly hands him over to the butler, as if he’s something of a nuisance. The butler gives him a condescending once-over, before saying, “Wait here, please, Mr. Carter. I will inform the Colonel of your arrival.” 

Sid is left standing there, creaking the same bit of floorboard repeatedly, as he waits.

The butler re-emerges moments later, leaning his head around a heavy wooden door a few paces away. 

He beckons Sid to approach him, and before delivering him into the room he looks disapprovingly at his flat cap. 

Sid snatches it off his head and bunches it anxiously in his hands. 

“In you go, Mr. Carter.” The butler says, gesturing with an open palm. 

The room is a healthily sized study, with walls groaning under the weight of leather bound tomes. Sid eyes them, and concludes that each one would probably cost about three years’ wages. 

A small fire has been laid in the hearth, and at the centre of the room is a grand, finely polished desk. Colonel Sullivan sits behind it, reclining in a Chesterfield armchair made of deep green leather. He looks up disinterestedly as Sid comes to stand before him. 

“Ah. You must be,” He checks a list in front of him, “Sidney Carter. From Montague House. You have written recommendation, I assume?” 

Sid rustles in his pocket and pulls out the letter, self-consciously smoothing it in his hands. “From the Lady of the House herself, sir.” 

Colonel Sullivan takes the letter and cracks open the wax seal, lifting his reading glasses down on to his nose. “Tell me, Carter, what can you offer my household?” 

“I— I can do many things, sir. I’ve experience in both gamekeeping and gardening. I’ve helped manage woodland and I’ve worked with farm machinery — I know a little about motorcar engines, too.” 

“A jack of all trades, hm?” Colonel Sullivan says, eyes still scanning the letter. His face betrays no emotion. 

“Lady Felicia took me in at a very young age, sir. I was taught as an apprentice and assistant to different members of the household staff.” Sid clears his throat nervously. 

“You have no family?” 

“I’m an orphan, sir. My father was killed in Flanders; my mother in a Zeppelin raid.” 

“Hm.” The Colonel fixes him with a long, uncomfortable stare. It’s rather like being watched by the paintings. 

“Carter, I’m hiring you, predominantly in the fields of gamekeeping and gardening. I may avail you of your other capabilities as I find necessary. You can start on Monday to allow you time to transfer your belongings to the estate. We will provide you a cottage in the woodland in which to live, along with all of the tools necessary for you to efficiently complete your job. You have a dog, I assume? Her feed will be supplied by the household. Your wage will be paid bimonthly, and any further questions should be directed to the Head Gardener, Mr. Goodfellow. Is that quite clear?” 

“Y-Yes sir. Very clear, sir.” Sid had been prepared for much more questioning than that. Relief washes over him. “T-Thank you.” He manages to add. 

The Colonel’s mind looks preoccupied already. “Lady Felicia speaks highly of you, Carter. I am expecting good things.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it begins... this is quite a serious chapter, but im hoping to go more jane austen yearn-y as things progress!
> 
> thank you so much for reading so far!!


	2. The Nights When He Could Not Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sullivan finds himself staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew i finally got round to proofreading this chapter. its been too hot to think recently though, so if i made any glaring errors im sorry!!   
> anyway, i wasn't lying when i said this was slowburn, because nothing really happens in this chapter (but somehow i feel like a lot does?? idk) 
> 
> upgraded the rating to mature for... reasons, but there's nothing explicit (...yet?)   
> also added sullivan is repressed/internalised homophobia to the tags as i've noticed it cropping up a little. for those who would like details, it's mostly sullivan repressing his sexuality rather than any extreme self-hatred (at least that's how im intending it to come across!) but as usual i'd rather be safe than sorry with the tags! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this update <3

Sullivan is awoken to a decidedly dull morning by Mallory’s incessant knocking on his bedroom door. 

He pretends that he is still asleep, burrowing his nose further into his bedsheets, as Mallory throws the heavy blue drapes open. Although the day is grey, the light is still blinding and it is hurting his eyes already. 

Mallory, it seems, finds it impossible to do any of his work quietly. Despite his small stature he sounds like a herd of elephants stomping across the creaky wooden flooring. 

Sullivan can only take a few more moments before he forces himself to sit up in bed, sighing heavily. 

“Ah, Good Morning, sir.” 

“Good Morning, Mallory.” Sullivan grumbles, pulling his pyjama shirt back up on to his shoulder. 

“Will you be taking breakfast with your parents today?” 

“If possible I’d rather have it in my study, please. My father has given me a substantial amount of paperwork to be getting on with, and I’d rather start early.” His brow deepens into a frown. 

“Very well, sir.” Mallory says with a slight inclination of his head. 

Sullivan can never tell if he’s being entirely sincere. He can only smile uncomfortably as Mallory trails from the room.

Sullivan considers trying to go back to sleep, but he wasn’t lying when he cited the hefty stacks of paperwork prepared for him by his father. It’s all account work, most of it entirely mindless, and Sullivan would rather have it completed swiftly. It’s the only way to ensure his father won’t start breathing down his neck. Plus, the sooner it’s filed away the sooner he can return to his sketchbooks - he might even get chance to work on his watercolours. They’re currently tucked under his study’s floorboards, where they’re safe, and where his father can’t lay his hands on them. He’s made it clear since Sullivan was a small boy that indulging in the arts is _not_ an acceptable way to spend one’s time, least of all for a man and heir to a major estate.

Anyway, sleep will not come now. He’s too awake, and his mind is already racing. Peeling himself out of bed, Sullivan blinks to clear the tiredness from his eyes. He dresses quickly and makes an attempt to flatten his hair in the mirror. It isn’t being completely compliant, and Sullivan gives it a rather disgruntled stare for a few seconds before meandering into his study. 

He switches his desk lamp on and it flickers to life reluctantly. Sullivan sympathises with its work ethic. 

He picks up the first sheet of a heap his father handed him the previous evening. _Monthly Intakings from the North Western Colliery._ Riveting. 

He sets to work immediately, and finds he’s around halfway through the first set of accounts when a light rap echoes from his study door. “Come in.” Sullivan calls, squinting as he tries to make sense of the hideous handwriting. 

Mallory enters carrying a comically oversized tray of breakfast. He struggles to place it down on the sideboard, puffing and panting. “Would you like me to serve the breakfast, sir?” 

“No, thank you, Mallory,” Sullivan doesn’t look up from his work and tries to hide the irritation in his voice, “I’ll take it in my own time.”

“As you wish, sir. In a few moments the housemaids will be in to clean your bedroom; I shall tell them not to disturb your work.” 

Sullivan musters up a grunt in reply. 

Almost as soon as Mallory has left the room, pulling the door closed behind him, muffled clattering and giggling announces the housemaids’ presence in the bedroom. Sullivan isn’t sure whether to laugh at the fact they clearly pay as little attention to Mallory’s biddings as he does. 

Oddly, the background noise is somewhat welcome to Sullivan as he works. Perhaps the greatest thing he’s yet to adapt to since returning from war is how silent Isley Hall can be. After four years of sleeping under constant shellfire, silence feels eerily out of place. His father has always been a man with the belief that servants should be neither seen nor heard, but Sullivan takes reassurance in the fact that he isn’t completely alone in these echoey old halls, even though he may feel like it. 

The girls sweep away, brushing out the hearth and floors, and shaking down the bedding. They chatter loudly, talking about everything and nothing at all as they work. 

Sullivan is intending to ignore them - he likes to think himself better than indulging in petty servants’ gossip -until one thread of their conversation pricks his ears. 

“Have you seen the new gamekeeper?” One of the maids says in a tone that can only indicate pure impropriety. The gentle lilt in her voice indicates to Sullivan that it’s Susie Jasinski. 

The other maid gasps. “I _have_. He’s a bit of alright, i’nt he?” _That_ is almost certainly Maeve Lochlin. 

Sullivan puts down his pen, curious. From what he’s overheard in the hallways both Jasinski and Lochlin are rather popular amongst the young male servants. If a new servant has caught their eye, well, that’s sure to cause some upset downstairs. 

“He _is_. I spoke to him earlier. He’s very charming. And his eyes _sparkle_.” 

“And he’s so _tall_ , too! I swear I nearly broke my neck looking up at ‘im!” They erupt into giggles. 

Sullivan’s brow furrows. _A new gamekeeper?_

“It’s about time we got some handsome men working in this place.” Susie huffs. 

There is a hearty cackle from Maeve’s end. “Does Moustache-Mallory not do it for you?” 

Susie shrieks and there’s a distinctive thud like the sound of someone throwing a pillow. “Don’t say awful things.” She sounds positively scandalised. 

Maeve laughs some more. “I know what you mean though - half the girls in this place are gorgeous, but the blokes? No thank you. A dishy gamekeeper is just what we need.” 

They stay on the topic for a few more giddy seconds, before their conversation soon trails off in other directions and Sullivan begrudgingly returns to his work. This time, he is more than a little preoccupied - his thoughts are taken by this new gamekeeper. He remembers the previous holder of the position retiring due to old age. He and his moth-eaten dog live on the edges of the estate nowadays. Sullivan hadn’t heard that his father had hired someone new. 

If the housemaids are to be believed, this new gamekeeper is clearly handsome and charming. There’s a faint squirm in Sullivan’s gut as he wonders what he looks like. Tall and strong, probably, and sturdy to keep up with the demands of the job. Strong hands, strong arms and — _no_. 

Sullivan’s face flames and he stands up too quickly, disturbing the papers on his desk. He rushes to the sideboard and pours himself a glass of cool water from his breakfast tray. He gulps it down desperately, trying to shake some sense into himself. He isn’t allowed to think about _those_ sorts of things. Sometimes when he’s alone in bed at night he can’t help himself but he never — he _cannot_ entertain those thoughts for any significant length of time. 

Rather shakily, he settles himself back at his desk, picks up his pen and returns to his work. _Focus_. 

As it happens, he only gets a few more lines written before Maeve’s voice is piping up again. 

“Susie!” She gasps with some urgency. “Come quick!”

“What? What’s happening?” Sullivan hears Susie clattering across the room, heading to the back of the house where the broad sash window looks out onto the manicured gardens and wild parklands of the hall. 

“It’s _him_! It’s the gamekeeper!” 

They break out into twitters. “Look at his arms!” Susie says wistfully. 

Sullivan can almost picture her swooning, hands clasped beneath her chin. His grip on his pen tightens. He should get on with his work. The empty pages are glaring at him. 

Yet Sullivan is betrayed by his unconscious mind, and before he realises it he’s rising from his desk and pacing across the room to the window. 

The sash is slightly ajar, and the breeze is refreshing. Sullivan rests his hands on the old wood, flecks of paint breaking off onto his palms, and peers out. 

Down on the gravel below, Goodfellow is talking to a man who must be the new gamekeeper. The housemaids were not wrong - he _is_ tall, and he’s handsome in a rugged and somewhat wild way. 

He stands with his hands on his hips, his shirt slightly open and pushed up to the elbows. He’s listening to what Goodfellow is telling him, chewing on his lower lip and nodding. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. 

Sullivan finds himself staring. 

The man’s forearms are tanned and strong, the muscles defined by hard work. His shoulders are broad, and his chest, partially visible through the open neck of his shirt, looks solid. His hair in comparison appears soft, and the breeze tugs at the ends of it playfully. 

Heat spreads across Sullivan’s chest. 

He wants the man to look at him. He wants to see if his eyes really are as sparkling as the housemaids say. 

The man looks up suddenly, as if his eyes are caught by movement. He breaks out into a lopsided grin as he looks up at the window of Sullivan’s bedroom. He offers a tiny wave and even a cheeky wink as Goodfellow laughs.

Sullivan hears the maids shriek. 

“He’s looking at us, Susie, oh my _god_!” 

“What do we do, oh no, pretend we’re busy! Quickly! Pretend we’re polishing the glass.” 

“He just _winked_ oh crikey - I think I’m actually weak at the knees!” 

Something flares in Sullivan’s chest. _Notice_ _me_ _._

And just like that, as if Sullivan had called his name, the man’s eyes drift across to the study window. 

His grin mellows into a softer, more gentle smile. It’s lost much of its cheeky edge, but it’s a curious smile nonetheless. Even from the distance, Sullivan can tell the man’s eyes are watching him intently. Studying him, almost. Reading him like a book.

Sullivan’s heart is thudding so loudly he can hear it pounding in his ears. He’s aware that he is holding eye contact, and it is persisting for far too long, but he feels nailed down to the spot. He cannot tear his eyes away. 

There’s something about this man that captivates him. Perhaps it is the glimmer in those eyes, or the set of his mouth, or maybe even how his neck curves into his collarbone. Something about this man has Sullivan in a daze.

The spell is only broken when Goodfellow follows the gamekeeper’s gaze and looks up to Sullivan’s study window. 

Sullivan’s breath catches into a gasp as he tears himself away. Intense eye contact with a member of staff feels taboo anyway, but actually being caught in the process of it? Sullivan feels the scandal crawling up his spine. It’s making him rather hot and bothered. 

He rushes back to his desk, unsettled. 

Goodfellow will probably explain to the gamekeeper who he is. The thought makes Sullivan anxious. He finds it hard to judge what the household staff think of him. While he knows he cannot be as despised as his father he wonders if his own reputation is much better. 

He wonders what assessments the gamekeeper will make of him. He wonders what assessments the gamekeeper has _already_ made of him, just from their few moments of breathless eye contact. He isn’t supposed to care what the servants think, but Sullivan does anyway. He turns the interaction over in his mind, and finds that he is unduly concerned with the thoughts of _this_ servant in particular. 

Sullivan shakes his head sharply, as if to clear it of any improper thoughts. He takes a strong sip of his coffee. He’s being silly, really. He has no time for this. He has work to get on with. 

With an unsteady hand, he turns back to the accounts. 

As the clock ticks on, the maids finish up their work in the bedroom. They dash from the room, squealing and cackling away. 

Sullivan listens as their footsteps clatter down the hallway and into the distance.

He envies their particular sort of freedom. 

* * *

Night times are always the worst. 

Sullivan’s mind always starts to wander as he lies in bed - when he’s alone in the pitch black, with nothing to occupy himself but his own thoughts. 

It is here that his brain concocts his most forbidden fantasies — ones of broad shoulders, strong jaws, and rough, firm hands. 

Usually these thoughts are random — faceless, nameless men that Sullivan has never seen and never will see. Except on this auspicious evening, his traitorous brain has suffering in mind. 

Tonight, most of his fantasies start to swirl and merge into one clear figure — someone tall, with sparkling eyes and a lopsided grin. 

Sullivan presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. There’s an incessant throbbing between his legs but he can’t — he can never do anything about it. Especially not when thinking about — no. 

Sullivan clamps his thighs together, rolls over, and falls into an uncomfortable, disturbed sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact maeve and susie are bisexual and in love :) this is almost entirely irrelevant to sullivan's journey but im telling u anyway <3


	3. Quite Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sullivan finally meets the handsome gamekeeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry i took so long updating this fic!   
> im not entirely happy with this chapter, and it was initially going to be longer, but im pushing the last scene into the next chap because this was taking too long and getting too clunky! 
> 
> there is a very very brief and vague hint towards religious intolerance in this chapter, but it is only in passing if you squint! father brown is too nice to be like that
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading!!

Colonel Sullivan is a horrifically boring man. 

_It’s a wonder,_ Sullivan thinks to himself _, that mother made it down the aisle and through the vows without dropping off to sleep._

The _sujet du jour_ for this morning’s walk around the grounds is the restyling of the walled garden. 

Sullivan had suggested that it be replanted in an Italianate style, but perhaps with more allowances for wild plants and flowers. It would encourage wildlife - birds, butterflies, and the like - and secretly Sullivan would love to draw them. He can’t frame it like that in front of his father, of course, but he can talk vaguely around the topic. 

The Colonel always asks for his son’s thoughts and suggestions, but invariably goes on to rubbish them within a few moments. “Italianate? Good God, no. _Frightfully_ old fashioned. Can’t think of anything worse.” 

Sullivan falls silent then, swallowing the horrid bitter feeling into the pit of his stomach.

His father blunders along with the conversation as usual, seemingly oblivious to his son’s upset. 

It’s a pleasant morning at least, and the woods, although still rather wild, are just starting to blossom with the first signs of spring. Sullivan feels safe in the woods, and he lets the gentle birdsong and rustle of leaves drown out his father’s droning voice. He’ll probably regret it later, when he’s questioned on the ins and outs of the conversation, but for now he just thinks about the feel of fresh air in his lungs and the crunching of twigs under his feet. 

They walk for a while, striding in step with each other. 

It’s not long after Colonel Sullivan’s third rant of the morning that the untamed part of the forest starts to thin, and the woods open up into a small clearing. 

In the centre sits a tiny stone cottage. Its walls are covered with climbing ivy, and smoke gently curls up from its chimney. 

Lounging on the doorstep is a sparky, bright-eyed spaniel. It perks up as it sees them approaching and yips enthusiastically as it bounds up to Sullivan’s knees. 

The dog’s eyes are warm and joyful, and its fur is chocolatey and silky smooth. Sullivan ruffles its ears and feels himself smiling involuntarily. 

A sharp whistle pierces the air, startling Sullivan. He looks up and finds his father watching at him disapprovingly. 

Face burning, Sullivan drops his hand from the dog’s head and clenches it by his side. 

Someone whistles again, and then the gamekeeper rounds the corner of the cottage with an axe in his hand. “Mabel!” He calls. 

The dog turns on her heel and races to his side, sitting bolt upright and waiting for command. 

The gamekeeper grins at her and tickles her under the chin, “Good girl.” 

“Ah, Carter,” Colonel Sullivan begins, “Just the man I was looking for.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you arrive, sir. I was chopping fire wood round the back,” He lifts the axe slightly by way of explanation. 

Sullivan spies a supple forearm and gulps. 

“That’s quite alright, Carter, I merely came to request—“ The Colonel frowns then, becoming deep in thought. He’s no doubt forgotten what he came to ask in the first place. 

The air remains unusually quiet, and Sullivan is sure he’s creating an awkwardness by trying so desperately not to make eye contact with the gamekeeper. 

His father hums beside him, muttering to himself, “Now, what was it, hm…” 

_The gardens,_ Sullivan wants to prompt, but he isn’t sure if he’ll be reprimanded for being out of pocket. 

“Have you met my son, Carter?” The Colonel interjects suddenly. 

“Not formally, no, sir,” The gamekeeper hums. There’s a smile in his voice. 

Sullivan forces himself to make eye contact and instantly regrets it. 

The gamekeeper’s eyes are a piercing blue, his lips are quirked into a teasing half grin, and there is something in his presence that makes Sullivan’s knees weaken. 

This man is quite something. He’s doing strange things to Sullivan’s head.

Sullivan’s eyes trail to the open neck of the gamekeeper’s shirt, drifting across the dips of his collarbones and the hollow of his throat. He suddenly has an overwhelming urge to _bite_ , and in complete horror at himself Sullivan snaps his eyes away instantly. 

He can’t tell if Carter _saw_ , but out of the corner of his eye it looks as if he’s smirking. 

Sullivan blushes hotly. 

“Ah, this is Thomas Sullivan, heir to this estate and my only son,” Colonel Sullivan thumps Sullivan on the shoulder and looks decidedly disappointed as he winces, “Thomas, this is Sidney Carter, our new gamekeeper, hired from Montague Hall.” 

The gamekeeper offers his hand first, and Sullivan takes it shakily. 

Sid’s palm is broad, warm, and slightly roughened from hard work. He squeezes Sullivan’s hand firmly, but not too harshly, and his grip feels pleasantly strong. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” He says, looking straight into Sullivan’s soul. 

“And you,” Sullivan finds he can only whisper the words in response. 

They drop the handshake and Sullivan’s hand buzzes. His fingers itch and he finds himself flexing them to relieve some of the tension. He swipes his hand surreptitiously on his trousers to dry his suddenly sweaty palms. 

“Oh, and this is Mabel Carter,” Sid indicates to the dog beside him. 

Mabel barks and wags her tail at the sound of her name, and Sullivan’s smile blooms. 

“Good morning, Miss Carter,” He finds himself saying gently. 

He can sense his father watching the scene disapprovingly once more, and Sullivan feels regret stinging behind his eyelids.

Sullivan clears his throat as his smile drops, and he steps away from the gamekeeper and his dog. It’s for his own sanity, if nothing else. 

“Ah! That was it,” The Colonel says briskly, clapping his hands together. “Carter, from next week I should like you to start work on the redevelopment of the walled garden. I shall provide Goodfellow with the plans once I have them finalised with my designer, and you shall be under his instruction for the duration. ” 

Sid nods, “Very good, sir.” 

The Colonel rocks back on his heels, “That is all I require of you today, Carter, we shan’t bother you any longer,” He begins striding away back into the woods, giving no further acknowledgement, “Come on, Thomas, many things to discuss!”

Sullivan follows him briskly, having to jog slightly to ensure he isn’t left behind. 

As they trudge back onto the woodland path, Sullivan can’t resist and finds himself taking one last glance over his shoulder at Sid Carter and his cottage. 

His heart leaps when he finds that Sid is looking back. 

* * *

Sullivan sits tensely beside his father at Sunday Morning mass and tries not to think about Sidney Carter. 

It is a hopeless endeavour. Sullivan has been thinking about Sidney Carter for three days straight. 

He does feels guilty. Father Brown is sweet, kind man who always puts great thought into his homilies. He really is deserving of more of Sullivan’s attention. 

Alas, Sullivan’s mind is fully occupied replaying the meeting in the woods. Without fail his mind scratches like a faulty gramophone to the moment their hands had touched. He hates how his heart flutters at the thought. 

Sullivan doesn’t know if Sid Carter is in church today. He doesn’t even know if he’s religious, but then again that doesn’t necessarily equate with one’s church attendance. Since the war Sullivan has found it hard to have faith in a God, but he still shows up once a week, albeit at his father’s demand. 

He itches to turn around and scan the pews. He shamefacedly acknowledges that he has no good reason to, and doing so would surely attract attention away from Father Brown’s riveting discussion of the moralities of Daniel in the Lion’s Den. 

Sullivan clenches his hands into fists. He is going to have to do something about this. He cannot go on mooning helplessly over a member of the staff. Carter is being allowed to take up full time residence in his thoughts. 

He comes to the conclusion that he _must_ see Carter again. It’s just the shock of another young man coming into the household, that’s all. It’s unusual, and Sullivan just isn’t used to it. If they meet again, Sullivan can reassure himself that he is just being silly and that there is no _attraction_ to the man, only curiosity. He buries his nighttime fancies in the back of his mind, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge them. 

It would be helpful, really, to create a comfortable working relationship with Carter. His father would approve of that, certainly, because he approves of anything that ups the efficiency of his son’s work. 

If Sullivan were particularly brave he'd just go on a walk himself. He’d march straight up to Carter, introduce himself properly and they could have a brief discussion about the grouse shooting season. Then Sullivan could stop thinking about him and he could get on with his life. 

Part of him also wonders if they’d talk about others things, and maybe Sid Carter would smile at him, and then he might be inclined to invite Sullivan in to the cottage and they — _no_. He must stop himself being so _fanciful_. 

Sullivan is certain he isn’t shouldn’t be having these thoughts, least of all in _church_. 

He shakes his head sharply, ridding his thoughts of the last traces of Carter’s smile. As he exits his dream world, he finds that Father Brown is finishing the service and bidding the congregation a good day. 

Sullivan murmurs a faint _Amen_ under his breath and stands, glancing back at some of the servants leaving the pews. 

No Carter. 

At least, no Carter in the church at that exact moment. 

He mentally scolds himself. _Stop thinking about him._

Sullivan hangs his head and shuffles from the pew, only to hear Father Brown calling on him.

“Ah, Mr. Sullivan,” Father Brown says warmly, shaking Sullivan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you in church.” 

“Yes,” Sullivan hums, watching the sunlight stream through the stained-glass window behind the Father’s head. He thinks he should probably say in return that it is a pleasure to be _in_ church, but he feels morally grey about lying to a priest. 

The Father watches him quietly for a moment, his eyes bright but unreadable. “I’ve noticed you haven’t quite been yourself in today’s service. I just wanted to reassure you that the church doors are always open to you. If there’s anything on your mind, or anything you need to talk about, I am always readily available.” 

Sullivan grits his teeth anxiously, “Thank you for your concern, Father, but really, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m just a little tired.” He tries to smile reassuringly, but it feels rather like a grimace.

It’s funny, really. He wonders what the Father would say if he knew the true cause of Sullivan’s worries. _Can you give me some advice, Father?_ , Sullivan imagines himself saying, _I’ve been overcome with an unbearable urge to sink my teeth into a gamekeeper’s neck._

Father Brown only smiles beatifically, inclining his head, “I shall pray for a restful night for you, Mr Sullivan. But my offer still stands, should you ever need help or guidance, I am more than willing to offer my thoughts, if you think they would help you.”

“Thank you, Father I—“ 

“I’m told I am a particular expert in matters of the heart, too,” Father Brown adds, proudly and in a somewhat conspiratorial tone. 

Sullivan freezes and has a creeping feeling that this man can read minds. How could he possibly know the conflicts in Sullivan’s thoughts? Perhaps he doesn’t, Sullivan reassures himself. There’s been talk for a couple of years now about his parents marrying him off. He’s _getting to that age,_ they all say _._ The Father is probably just making intelligent assumptions.

“Right, yes, I— I’ll be sure to call in if I—“ Luckily, Sullivan’s mother calls to him before he has chance to finish his reply, “Forgive me, Father, but I must go. Thank you for the service.” 

“Thank you for attending, Mr. Sullivan.” 

Sullivan steps down from the altar uneasily and offers his mother his arm. 

His father always claims that a church service does wonders for clearing one’s head. 

Sullivan could not disagree more as his thoughts crash around noisily.

He supposes he’s at least certain of one thing — he will surely go insane if he doesn’t see Sidney Carter again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats... kind of progress???? its more yearning at least, and hooray for father brown!!!!! i just wanted him in this fic being cute tbh. 
> 
> is the entire purpose of this chapter just so sid x sullivan have a pride and prejudice hand touching scene?? yes absolutely. 
> 
> anyway, like i said not completely happy with how this turned out but i really hope you liked it!!! hopefully i will update this relatively quickly this time round whoops xx
> 
> (as ever, please excuse any spelling/grammar mistakes !)


	4. A Humble Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sullivan swallows his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO UPDATE THIS. hopefully this chap is longer than usual idk.   
> i hope you enjoy it anyway lol 
> 
> apologies bc i didnt actually reread this fic before posting so idk if it actually works as a coherent fic or not?? i feel like the style is changing as i go on but oh well its a fun experiment. 
> 
> get ready for lots of thirsty sullivan in this bad boy lol. ENJOY BABIES!!!!

Susie Jasinski knocks timidly on the door to Sullivan’s drawing room and enters once she is given grumbled permission. 

Sullivan is moping. He frowns hopelessly at the fresh sketchbook page in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir, sorry for the intrusion, but your fireplace in here…” Susie folds her hands delicately in front of her, “It hasn’t been swept in a while.” 

“Oh,” Sullivan turns to find ashes piling up and spilling over in the grate. He hadn’t noticed. 

Susie bows her head. “We’ve tried not to disturb you, sir, so we haven’t come in, but I wouldn’t want it getting all smoky in here,” She checks over her shoulder and lowers her voice to a hushed whisper, “Especially with all your drawings. They’re very beautiful, I shouldn’t like to see them damaged.” 

Sullivan feels a little bashful as she gazes up at a string of watercolours pegged up to dry by the window. 

“Um, Thank you, I—“ He waves vaguely at the paintings, “I did them a few days ago - they’re probably dry by now, I should - They’re not my best work.” 

“I like the colours.” Susie says plainly, tilting her head like a fascinated child as the sunlight streams through, highlighting pinks, oranges, and deep reds. She shakes her head quickly then, as if remembering what she is here to do. She raises her dustpan and brush in question. 

“Oh, right. Yes, of course, please, go ahead.” 

Susie nods and hurries in, hitching her dress up to her knees so she doesn’t dirty it too much in the ashes.

Sullivan returns his attention to the creamy blankness of his sketchbook and finds it reassuring to have a bit of background noise. There’s nothing worse for artistic inspiration than stony, eerie silence, and Isley Hall has that in spades. 

Taking a deep breath, Sullivan picks up his pencil and hovers it over the page. 

Nothing. 

Still no inspiration whatsoever. He purses his lips and looks back at the messy watercolours. They were only done at haste as the sun set outside his window, but somehow they are the best work he’s produced in weeks.Something is affecting Sullivan’s concentration. 

Behind him, Susie sneezes and apologises softly. 

Sullivan smiles softly at her politeness, only to find the expression turning into a grimace as he remembers the day before. He thinks of the way the new gamekeeper had spoken to him, so _rudely_ , and he bristles. 

Sullivan hates how confused it makes him feel. Unlike his father, he’s always believed in treating the servants with respect. He finds that they show him kindness in return. But this man, this man had seem so _entitled_. So entitled to his opinion about Sullivan despite the fact they’d only just met. He felt entitled to let Sullivan know what he thought about him. 

Sullivan hates it. 

He hates how unsettled he feels about the whole situation. He hates that his mind keeps straying to that little cottage tangled with ivy in the woods. He hates how this man has toyed with his emotions. _Except he hasn’t really, has he,_ the horrid voice in his head reminds him, _it was you who allowed yourself to be carried away with the idea that—_

Sullivan cuts his thoughts off.

It dawns on him that perhaps he should apologise. He doesn’t want to; not one bit, not after Carter’s rudeness. Still, with the gift of hindsight Sullivan can acknowledge that he was a little offhand. Allowing his anger to spill out like that was undignified, and for witnessing that, Carter is owed an apology. 

It has nothing to do with wanting _approval,_ or any such nonsense, of course. It’s a simple matter of Sullivan not allowing his excellent manners to be brought into question. Servant gossip spreads fast, and it would only do damage to the balance of the whole household if the gamekeeper misinterpreted something.

Sullivan nods sharply to himself. Later, when he’s built up the courage, he shall be the bigger man. He shall go and apologise to Sid Carter, and hope he does the same in return. Good, harmonious, servant relations restored. 

Sullivan picks up his pencil and begins sketching a hare he saw across the fields earlier this morning. 

Just as Susie is about to leave, he asks her for her thoughts. 

She peers over his shoulder to look. “I think he’s just wonderful.” 

* * *

While a heavy, apprehensive stone sits in the pit of Sullivan’s stomach, the rest of his body feels light. Spring feels nice, with a slow warmth gathering in the air, and the fresh scent of nighttime rain evaporating in the afternoon sun. 

Sullivan traipses through the woods and tries to enjoy the walk, choosing not to focus on how muddy his freshly pressed trousers are getting. There is also the small matter of swallowing his pride and apologising to a servant, but if Sullivan isn’t thinking about his trousers he certainly isn’t thinking about _that._

There’s an odd little twinge in Sullivan’s chest as he marches into the clearing. It feels familiar already, and Sullivan doesn’t quite know what to make of that. 

He braces himself for Mabel to come skidding round the edge of the cottage, barking and alerting her master to his presence. 

This time, however, there is nothing. 

Sullivan frowns, striding up to the cottage door and rapping several times upon it. “Is anybody there?” 

Silence. 

Sullivan glares at the doorstep, feeling strangely embarrassed. What was he _thinking_ , coming out here unannounced for a tenuous cause? 

The logical part of his brain reminds him that having good manners _is_ a good reason. However, that increasingly emboldened, traitorous part of Sullivan’s consciousness pipes up once more, prodding him with thoughts centred on not being able to resist seeing Sid Carter again. 

“Stupid,” Sullivan mutters to himself, kicking at a broken piece of flint in the dirt. Stupid Sid Carter for not answering the door, and stupid him for coming out here in the first place. 

Just as Sullivan is about to turn on his heel and leave, a distant sound catches his attention. 

Is that… _laughter_? 

Someone is laughing, deeply and richly, accompanied by a dog’s enthusiastic yapping. 

Sullivan frowns and concentrates his hearing. _Splashing, and running water._

It feels like a subconscious decision when his feet move. He stalks around to the back of the cottage. Following a little pathway of broken branches and fallen nettles, Sullivan soon finds himself stumbling down to the banks of one of the large streams that bubble through the Isley estate. 

_Oh._

Sid Carter is in the water, waist deep, and notably, not wearing a shirt.

_He’s probably not wearing anything at all_ , Sullivan’s brain helpfully supplies. 

Scorching heat erupts from every nerve in Sullivan’s body, and for a moment he wonders if he might actually be on fire. A quick feel of the back of his neck reassures him that he isn’t spontaneously combusting; he’s just blushing helplessly. Sullivan feels rather faint. His hand reaches out to steady himself on a nearby tree trunk.

Sid is facing away, and hasn’t noticed Sullivan’s arrival. He’s preoccupied by Mabel, who is standing on the bank opposite, tugging on some wet clothing draped over a piece of twine tied between two trees. 

“Mabel!” Sid cries, folding over with laughter, “Mabel, you naughty girl, leave them!” 

Mabel only growls playfully, knowing full well she’s in trouble, and wiggles her little bottom joyfully. 

Sullivan knows that this is odd, that he should announce his presence with a cough or some noise or _something,_ but he cannot stop staring.

Sid’s back is nice. It’s broad, strong and sturdy, and the damp skin glistens in the dappled sunlight. Sullivan watches in fascination as muscles ripple over Sid’s shoulder blades. He wonders what it would be like to run his hands across the expanse. He wonders what it would be like to run a finger down that spine, to dig nails into the flanks as Sid— 

Becoming a little overwhelmed with his own thoughts, he stumbles forward slightly, his foot snapping a twig. 

It’s not particularly loud, but it immediately catches the attention of Mabel, who becomes alert and barks once or twice. 

Sullivan holds his hands up guiltily, and Mabel seems to remember him — her tail begins wagging and she splashes haphazardly into the shallows to swim across to him. 

Sid notices her excitement and turns, eyebrows raised. 

“Oh, it’s you.” He sounds unimpressed, and it makes Sullivan feel sick. Sid dips his head into the water and resurfaces, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Surprised you came back.” 

“Well I… I wanted to—“ 

“You wanted to what?” Sid smirks, nodding down at his chest, “Get a good look?” 

“No!” Sullivan squeaks, eyes wide and cheeks flaming. “I came to— I came to _apologise_ for yesterday.” 

Sid frowns and tilts his head, looking at Sullivan like he’s grown three heads. 

“I’d really rather that you— that you came out of that water so I could talk to you properly I feel— I feel as if I’m shouting.” Sullivan adds through gritted teeth, waving stiffly at the stream and the trees around him. His entire body is so tense he feels he might shatter with even the slightest knock. 

Sid observes him for a few moments more, before eventually conceding. “Alright, if you insist,” He says. Sid begins wading to the edge, his torso slowly rising out of the water. 

Sullivan goes into a flat panic. “Um- What are you— doing? You—” 

He snaps his eyes away as more of Sid appears. _Definitely not wearing any clothes._

Sullivan suddenly becomes fascinated by a tiny patch of snowdrops just starting to spring at his feet. He surreptitiously presses his finger tips to his face and finds it still burning. It probably hasn’t stopped since he first saw Sid in the water. _Oh dear_. 

Sullivan swears he hears Sid chuckle, and he bites his lip. It’s back, that feeling of being toyed with. It’s the sense that this is all some _game_ , a game that Sid always seems to have the upper hand at. 

Sullivan distracts himself again as Mabel bumbles over, wagging her tail frantically. He busies himself by petting her damp head and marvelling at the pretty colours in her big brown eyes. 

“It’s alright,” Sid hums at last, “You can look now.” 

Sullivan dares to look up and finds the gamekeeper swaggering towards him, a smirk on his face and a towel slung low on his hips. 

Sullivan’s mouth turns hopelessly dry. He realises that he’s staring at a droplet of water racing down Sid’s chest, eventually getting stuck on a firm ridge of muscle. He needs to _stop,_ he knows this must look akin to _ogling,_ but his eyes seem unwilling to cooperate. 

Sid raises an eyebrow and it thankfully Sullivan out of his daze. 

“ _I came to apologise for my behaviour yesterday,_ ” Sullivan spills out in a rush. 

Sid doesn’t say anything, but looks at him expectantly as if waiting for him to continue. 

Sullivan squeezes his hands together tightly in front of himself. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke. I fear my manners may have come across as coarse. I feel you may have unfairly judged me, as I am not my father, and I unlike him I believe in treating our staff with respect. I understand that you are new to the estate and may have misunderstood my intentions; I should have made allowances for that and I reacted far too strongly than your accusation required. I can only apologise.” 

It feels oddly humiliating, but Sullivan’s mind is set. He turns his eyes to the ground again, finding he’s unable to look at Sid as he waits for a response. 

After a steady pause, Sullivan senses movement, as if Sid is walking towards him. He stares resolutely downwards until a hand is proffered in his line of vision. 

Sullivan takes it, ignoring his stomach somersaulting, and lifts his head. 

“I’m sorry, too. It was wrong of me to speak to you like that. I treated you with none of the respect you deserved,” Sid sighs, and looks pensive, “I appreciate you coming out here to see me, really, I do. I’m sorry for assuming you were like your father. I can see now that you’re not.”

“I think we should start again, don’t you?” Sid squeezes Sullivan’s hand gently and shakes it, just once. “I’m Sidney Carter. I’m the new gamekeeper of this estate.” 

Sullivan swallows thickly and feels the beginnings of a smile crossing his lips. “I’m… Thomas Sullivan, only child of Colonel and Mrs Sullivan, and sole heir to this estate.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Sid dips his head.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Carter.” Sullivan replies. “But _please_ do not call me sir. Sir is too much— too much of my father.”

“Mr. Sullivan it is, then,” Sid nods. 

They should probably let go. Sullivan should drop Sid’s hand and let him go on with his day. Only, he doesn’t want to. There’s something nice about the feel of Sid’s hand, warm and strong, holding his. For a moment, the woods feel almost magic. 

The stream bubbles, the birds cheep in the trees, and Mabel snuffles around the snowdrops. There are no accounts to file, no land to inspect, and Colonel Sullivan’s harsh words are a faint memory. 

Sid is smiling at him in an almost teasing way. Not cruelly, not as if he’s trying to mock. More that he has realised they are still, in essence, holding hands, and as if he’s seeing how long it takes Sullivan to notice too. 

Sullivan gasps and wrenches his hand from Sid’s grasp. He feels a little bit shaky, his palm buzzing. “Thank you,” He says, although quite what he’s grateful for he isn’t sure. “I’d best let you get on with your day.” 

Sullivan looks around a little helplessly, feeling clumsy and undignified, something that feels so odd in the presence of a servant. He doffs his hat lightly, bidding Sid farewell, and turns on his heel to march purposefully up from the bank before he can embarrass himself further. 

“I hope to see you around, Mr. Sullivan,” Sid calls just before Sullivan disappears from view. “Work on the walled garden starts in a couple of weeks. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other.”

Sullivan turns to look at him and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Sunlight and a gentle breeze play with strands of Sid’s hair, fanning them out around his head like the prettiest of halos. Coupled with his still very much exposed chest, Sullivan’s stomach squirms. 

“I’m sure we will, Carter.” 

* * *

That night, the predictable happens when Sullivan closes his eyes to rest. The once generic images swirl into warm, smooth, freckled skin. The phantom feeling of strong, calloused hands sliding over his chest returns. Warmth pools low and lower still, throbbing. 

Sullivan leaps out of bed and sprints to his bathroom. He turns the icy shower on himself, and glares at the grouting of the green tiled wall. 

He doesn’t settle back into bed until his fingers are blue and he’s shivering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly why are people freakin out about father brown fanfic the way this last year has been surely thats the least weird thing? who knows
> 
> anyway love to u babies xxxx
> 
> pls excuse spelling and grammar im TIRED


End file.
